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Morrison 


FROM   THE   PEESIDENT'S    OFFICE 
TO  THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRAET 


GIFT  OF 


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Morrison 


Author  of  "Earlier  Poems  of  Anna  M.  Morrison: 
The   "Later  Poems  of  Anna  Morrison  Reed," 
and  "The  Latest  and  Later,  Poems,—  1.396. 


Engravings  by  the  Si<_rra  -Art  's*r.g».*  , 

',  t  5*r. 'Francisco'  '    '.-'  J'*.:*'  I  I  .'  •". 

Petaluma,  California: 

^4orthern  Crown  Publishing  Company 

1915 


COPYRIGHT 

1915 

By  Anna  M.  Reed 
All  Rights  Reserved 


DEDICATION  M 

To  Him 

11  There  is  something  in  each  of  us,  that  does 
not  belong  to  the  family,  or  to  society — not  even  to 
ourselves. 

Sometimes  it  is  given  in  marriage,  and  some 
times  it  is  given  in  love,  but  oftener  it  is  never 
given  at  all. 

We  have  nothing  to  do,  with  giving  or  with 
holding  it. 

It  is  a  wild  thing  that  sings  in  us  once,  and 
flies  away,  and  never  comes  back — and  mine  has 
flown  to  you. 

When  one  loves  like  that,  it  is  enough  some 
how.  The  other  things  can  go  if  they  must. 

That  is  why  I  can  live  without  you,  and  die, 
without  you." 

—The  Gull's  Road. 


324863 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Gethsemane 1 

Your  Life  and  Mine 2 

Sunset.    The  Angels 3 

Spring 4 

Blue  Cornflowers.     Fragment 5 

Mother--A  Reverie 6 

Love  Me,  Beloved.    My  Heart 8 

Her  King.    Dusk  on  the  Columbia 9 

If  It  Is  To  Be.    To  Him 10 

A  Child  of  the  King 11 

Johanna,  The  Suicide 12 

Death  of  President  Garfield 13 

Empty  Rooms.    In  Dreams 16 

To  The  University  of  California.     To  Joaquin  Miller 17 

One  Easter  Day 18 

In  October 19 

At  the  Threshold  of  June 20 

Memorial  Poem  General  U.  S.  Grant 21 

My  Shrine.    "My  Life  Is  Devoted  to  Memories  of  You"  24 

To  My  Children 25 

The  Lyre  of  Greece 26 

Good  Friday 27 

Alone 28 

"Afterwards" 29 

At  The  Cliff.      Summerland 30 

Eilene 31 

A  Letter 32 

Ante  Mortem... 33 

Death  of  President  McKinley 34 

Surrender 35 

Meanwhile 36 

Queen  Victoria  From  a  Woman's  Scandpoint 37 

They  Too,  Are  But  Human,  A  Monotone 38 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Autographed  Portrait  of  Anna  Morrison  Reed,  Frontispiece 
Autograph  Letter  of  Oscar  Wilde,  to  Face  Page  4 
Autograph  Letter  of  Mrs.  Frank  Leslie,   to  Face  Page  8 
Autograph  Letter  of  Lucretia  R.  Garfield  to  Face  page  12 
Autograph  Letter  of  Joaquin  Miller,  to  Face  Page  16 
Autograph  Letter  of  Julia  D.  Grant,  to  Face  Page  20 


KNEEL  within  the  walls  of  my  Geth- 

semane, 
Above  the  cold,  bare  stones  a  sparrow 

builds, 

A  rose  blooms  over,  and  a  linnet  sings — 
They  all  are  His. 

And  so  I  know  that  Paradise  has  been, 
And  Heaven  is. 


your  Cife  and  mine 


HARDS  and  lees  after  meat  and  wine — 
Such  is  your  life,  my  own! — and  mine — 
After  the  feast,  the  "husks  and  swine." 


The  idle  word  and  the  careless  smile; 
The  endless  tasks  that  the  days  beguile, 
And  hearts  that  almost  break,  meanwhile. 

Then  tasteless  pleasures,  so  poor  and    tame, 
The  ties  that  gall --that  are  halt  and  lame, 
Where  love  risks  neither  life  nor  fame. 

But  you  remember,  and  so  do  I, 

The  fond  red  lip  and  the  loving  eye — 

These — and  the  thoughts  that  never  die. 

Of  the  twilight  hush  which  fell  so  soon, 
Your  darling  presence  within  the  room, 
A  brief,  sweet  hour,  and  then  the  gloom. 

How  do  I  live?  because  I  dare, 
Make  my  days  but  a  living  prayer, 
That  I  shall  find  you  again,  somewhere. 

After  the  storms  that  around  us  sweep, 
After  the  toil,  and  the  tears  I  weep, 
Into  yours  arms  1  shall  sometime  creep. 

Hurt  by  the  waves  as  they  toss  and  swell, 
Tired  of  the  things  I  have  done  so  well, 
With  only  strength  at  the  last  to  tell. 

How  I  have  loved  you;  throughout  all  time — 
How  I  have  suffered,  and  made  no  sign, 
True  to  a  passion  sublime — divine. 

Husks  and  dregs  after  fruit  and  wine, 
Pearls  that  are  cast  to  the  hungry  swine, 
Such  is  your  life,  my  own!— and  mine. 

(2) 


Sunset 

HE  evening's  genius  with   his   sword   of 

flame, 

Guards  well  the  portal  of  the  dying  day; 
His  lance  of  light  he   strikes  against  the  hills, 
Upon  the  highest  breaks  its  glancing  ray; 
He  marshals  grandly  on  a  crimson  sea 
His  cloudship  navy's  golden  argosy, 
Whose  flaunting  banner  in  the    sunset    glow 
Bids  brave  defiance  to  the  dark'ning  foe; 
Who,  swift  advancing,  o'er  him  softly  flings 
The    purple    shadow  of    the  twilight's  wing's 
Till  war's  red  flush  before    the    night   wind's 

breath 

Fades  out  into  the  sullen  gray  of  death, 
And  star-eyed  night,  prevailing  all    too   soon, 
Hangs  out  the  silver  sickle  of  the  moon. 


Cfce  flngels 


URE,  and  untouched  by  the   flame    of 

sin, 

Must  be  the  hosts  of  the  Cherubim. 
Mothers  bereaved,  with  cheeks  tear-wet 
Your  love,  the  heavens  with  jewels  set 
With  empty  arms  and  longing  eyes, 
Hopefully  turn  to  your  paradise. 

With  folded  hands  on  each  stainless  breast, 
You  have  laid  your  innocent  babes  to  rest, 
But  with  spirits,  in  legions  undefiled, 
Gathers  in  glory,  each  sinless  child. 
And  in  that  bright  realm,  that  seems  afar, 
The  souls  of  the  children,  the  Angels  are. 

(3) 


Spring 

PRING— and  the  blackbirdscall 

Where  the  rushes  are  thick  in   the 

swale, 

And  the  world  is  all  a-bloom, 
With  the  things  that  never  fail. 
But  my  heart  is  all  forlorn, 

And  I  live  because  I  must; 

It  is  Spring — and  your  heart  is  dust. 

On  the  green  wild  olive  tree 

The  bloom  is  thick  and  white, 
The  branches  wave,  and  a  spiced  perfume 

Fills  every  fragrant  night. 
And  a  thousand  radiant  flowers 

Awake  in  the  warm,  rich  mold; 

It  is  spring — and  your  heart  is  cold. 

Spring — and  the  linnets  sing 

To  their  mates  as  they  build  and  weave, 
And  they  waken  me  every  morn 

As  they  gather  under  the  eave, 
And  the  days  are  bright  and  a-song 

With  the  voice  of  robin  and  lark; 

But  your  grave  is  silent  and  dark. 

I  stand  near  the  end  of  the  way, 

At  a  threshold  I  may  not  pass, 

And  my  heart  is  weary  with  pain, 

And  the  cares  that  my  life  harass, 

And  my  eyes  are  dim  with  tears, 
And  I  live  because  I  must — 

And  the  spring  is  a  winter  day, 
Since  your  heart  is  dust. 


(4) 


ie  blackbirdscall 


• 


e  thick  in   the 


• 


dust. 


On  the  green  wild  olive  tree 

The  bloom  is  thick  and  white, 
The  branches  wave,  and  a  spiced  perfume 

Fills  every  fragrant  night, 

j  a  thousand  radiant  flowers 
Awake  in  the  warm,  rich  mold; 
It  is  spring— and  your  heart  is  cold. 

Spring — and  the  linnets  sing 

To  their  mates  as  they  build  and  weave, 
And  they  waken  me  every  morn 

As  they  g-  .ider  the  eave, 

And  the  days  are  bright  and  a-song 

With  the  voice  of  robin  and  lark; 

But  your  grave  is  silent  and  dark. 

1  stand  near  the  end  of  the  \v 

At  a  threshold  I  may  not  pass, 
And  my  heart  is  wfeary  with 

A ;  •    a  that  my  life  I: 

And  my  eyes  are.  dim  with  tea 

Ai:  c  a  use  1  must--— 

And  tli 


3     /    TLJ* 

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A 


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A  ,      ),      k  < 


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— Autograph  Letter  From  Oscar  Wilde. 


lx^ 


X 


Blue  Cornflowers 

|g?  HEY  are  crying  "Cornflowers"  in    the 

street, 

Blue  as  my  darling's  eyes — 
To  poppy  fields,  and  fields  of  wheat, 

Spread  under  azure  skies, 
iMy  heart  turns  backward  suddenly 

Rent  by  impassioned  pain, 
Where  Cornflowers  blossomed  long  ago, 

That  may  not  bloom  again. 
Where  lark  and  linnet  sing  by  day, 

At  dusk  the  thrushes  call, 
Along  the  hedgerows  by  the  sea, 

Where  evening's  shadows  fall. 
"Blue  Cornflowers,"  cry  the  vendors  here, 

Along  the  city's  pave — 
My  eyes  are  dim  with  sudden  tears, 

As  one  weeps  o'er  a  grave, 
Alas!  that  love  should  recreant  be, 

Alas!  that  flowers  should  fade, 
Alas!  the  face  I  never  see, 

That  once  my  sunshine  made. 
So,  still  the  larks  and  linnets  sing, 

And  still  the  thrushes  call, 
While  dark'ning  all  the  dreams  of  youth, 

Life's  lengthening  shadows  fall 

fragment 

Tn  an  ftibuni 

will  not  wish  you  gold,  or  love,  or  fame, 
Too  many  sins  committed  in  their  name, 
Sweep  through  the  ages,  and  with  dark 

surprise 

Their  annals  blast  the  light  of  artless  eyes. 
Virtue  alone  can  bless  and  crown  your  youth, 
Therefore  I  consecrate  its  days  to  truth. 

(5) 


-fl  Reverie 

N  the  brush  fence  by  the  lane 
I  hear  the  Stormbirds  crying, 

And  I  know  the  winter  rain 

Soon  will  beat  where  thou  art  lying; 


For  the  wind  and  rain  are  near, 

When  the  stormbirds  are  a-crying. 
A  brave  bright  winter  rose 

Taps  the  window  where  I'm  sitting; 
It's  heart  with  beauty  glows, 

While  the  autumn  hours  are  flitting; 
It  taps  the  silent  pane 

Of  the  window  where  I'm  sitting. 
The  south  wind  kisses  light 

Its  petals,  curved  and  folded, 
Like  a  picture  warm  and  bright, 

Close  in  the  heart  enfolded — 
Like  a  dream  of  love  and  youth, 

In  the  heart  of  age  enfolded. 
And  it  speaks  to  me  of  thee, 

While  the  stormbirds  are  a-crying, 
Though  thy  face  I  cannot  see, 

Thy  memory  is  lying 
In  the  winter  of  my  heart, 

Best,  brightest,  and  undying. 
I  dream  of  thee  so  dear, 

Before  the  woodfire  glowing; 
I  hear  the  herd-bells  clear, 

And  the  cattle  softly  lowing; 
The  sounds  foretell  the  rain, 

While  the  fire  is  softly  glowing. 
In  thought  I  pass  the  lane 

Where  stormbirds  are  a-crying 
As  to  some  sacred  fane, 

To  the  grave  where  thou  art  lying, 

(6) 


Through  fragrant  pine-wood  aisles 

Where  the  sunset  glow  is  dying. 
Where  one  can  not  hear  the  noise 

Of  a  footfall  on  the  mosses; 
Where  the  pine  leaves  lightly  poise 

Like  a  pile  of  russet  flosses; 
Where  the  rabbit  or  the  squirrel, 

With  silent  footstep,  crosses. 
Where  the  brake,  with  quiv'ring  fronds, 

Beside  the  gravestone  whispers 
The  earliest  matin  songs. 

And  at  eve  the  sadder  vespers, 
That  the  night  wind  softly  taught 

The  leaves  to  chant  in  whispers. 
There  so  quietly  you  sleep, 

While  restless  winds  are  sighing. 
In  the  grave  so  dark  and  deep, 

Nor  heed  the  stormbirds  crying, 
Nor  the  tears  that  fall  like  rain, 

And  my  heart  within  me  dying. 
The  rose  taps  on  the  pane, 

And  the  stormbirds  are  a-crying, 
And  I  soon  will  hear  the  rain 

Beat  through  the  wind's  low  sighing, 
While  rose  leaves  flutter  down 

On  the  grave  where  thou  art  lying. 


(7) 


Cove  me,  Beloved 

OVE  me,  my  darling!  a  week — or  a  day — 
I  ask  no  allegiance  enduring  for  aye, 
For  God,  in  His  wisdom,  all   changing 

has  made — 
The  blossoms  of  spring,  are  destined  to  fade. 

In  the  blue  of  your  eyes,  I  mirrored  have  seen, 
The  heaven,  of  which,  every  soul  has  it's  dream, 
And  through  the  long  years,  my  solace  shall 

be, 

That    sometimes,  my    darling,  you're    think 
ing  of  me. 

Love  me,  beloved — a  week  or  a  day, 
I  ask  no  allegiance  enduring  for  aye, 
For  God  in  His  wisdom  all  changing  has 

made, 
The  flowers  of  the  summer  are  blooming    to 

fade. 

my  ficart 

Y  heart  is  like  a  harp,  dear  love, 
A  harp  with  broken  strings, 
And  under  every  hand  but  yours, 

Its  sound  discordant  rings. 
But  to  your  touch  responds  again, 

The  songs  of  earlier  years, 
When  with  its  happier  music  came, 
No  undertone  of  tears. 

You  waken  all  the  olden  themes, 
That  slumber  in  its  strings 

When  life  was  one  long  day  of  dreams 
Of  fairer  better,  things, 

I  know  by  this,  these  broken  chords, 
In  some  far  realm  unite, 

In  perfect  melody  and  words, 
Tuned  with  the  Infinite. 

(8) 


fier  King 

WINSOME  maiden  planned  her  life— 
How,  when  she  was  her  hero's  wife, 
He  should  be  royal  among  men, 
And  -worthy  of  a  diadem. 
Through  all  the  devious  \vays  of  earth 

She  sought  her  king; 
The  snows  of  Winter  fell  before — 

She  walked  o'er  flowers  of  vanished  Spring 
Into  the  Summer's  fragrant  heat; 
She  bent  her  quest,  with  rapid  feet, 
Then  saddened;  still  she  journeyed  down 
The  Autumn  hillsides,  bare  and  brown, 
Through  shadowy  eves  and  golden  morns; 
And  lo!  she  found  Him  —  crowned  with  thorns. 


Dusk  on  the  Columbia 


HE  smouldering  fires  of  the  sunset, 

Die  in  the  western  sky, 

The  shadows  of  twilight  are  falling, 

Away  from  the  evening's  \vings, 
A  robin  his  mate  is  calling, 
With  the  song  of  a  thousand  springs. 

As  your  heart  called — and  is  calling, 
Through  all  the  changing  years, 
To  mine;  whose  only  answer, 
Must  be  but  silent  tears. 

Here  on  the  breast  of  the  river, 
That  flows  to  a  wider  sea, 
Hushed  in  a  dream  of  longing, 
The  dusk  has  folded  me. 

(9) 


If  II  is  to  Be 


F  it  is  to  be — O,  Love!  beside  the  chang 
ing  sea 
We  yet  may  meet;  and  hand  in  hand 

Wander  across  the  matchless  strand, 

And  find  again  in  answering  eyes 
The  light  of  our  lost  paradise. 

If  it  is  to  be — then  each  the  other's  face  may 

see; 

The  silence  of  the  sorrowing  years 
May  break  at  last  in  happier  tears, 
And  tired  heart  folded  close  to  heart 
So  tempest-tossed  no  more  shall  part. 


Co  Rim 

LL    laughter  has  been    madness,    since 

I  laughed  with  you, 

And  love  a  mockery,  and  life  an  irony, 
In  all  the  past,  your  heart  alone   rang 

true, 
Of  all  the  things  that  did  environ  me. 

I  know  at  last,  you  taught  me  all  the  truth 
Life  has  afforded,  in  those  earlier  years, 
I  only  feel  your  presence  blessed  my  youth, 
And  memory  hallows  all  these  later  tears. 

And  so,  I  am  so  glad  that  you  have  lived, 
Though  in  this  world;  no  longer  you  abide, 
I  cannot  find  it,  in  my  heart  to  grieve, 
Or  hopelessly  lament  that  you  have  died. 


(10) 


ft  ehiia  of  CIK  King 

OU  ask  of  my  title,  my  signet  and  ring — 
My  birthright  is  noble — I'm  child  of 

the  King, 
Who  came  to  His  own,  who  knew  Him 

not  then, 
But  wait  for  His  coming,  in  glory,  again. 

I  love  his  creation — His  flowers,  and  the  song, 

Of  the  tiniest  bird  that  sings  the  day  long, 

The  snow  of  the  winter — the  bloom  of  the 

spring, 

In  sunshine  and   starbeam.    I'm  child  of 
the  King. 

The  kiss  of  the  summer  is  sweet,  and  the  wind, 
Is  soft  and  perfumed,  where  the  Jasmine 

is  twined. 
And  the  bright  hues  of  autumn,  they  gladden 

and  bring, 
New  treasures  of  gold  to  the  child  of  the  King. 

A  world  that  is  beautiful,  wondrous,  sublime, 
Through  His  power  He  has  made  indi 
sputably  mine. 

Exulting  in  sight,  sound  and  touch,  while  I  sing, 
I  reign  o'er  my  heritage — child    of    the 
King. 


(11) 


tbe  Suicide 

IFE  was  a  burden,  and  love  was   cold, 
So  she  lies  with  her  hair  like  a  coil  of 

gold. 

Over  her  breast,  and  down  to  her  knee, 
And  people  are  saying  she  died  for  rne. 

Why?     I  wooed  her  when  dreams  of  truth, 
Dwelt  in  the  heart  of  our  radiant  youth, 
And  time  has  broken  faith's  golden  bowl, 
As  it  rent  the  garment  of  this  fair  soul. 

Time — and  the  complex  and  changing  years, 
Where  laughter  is  silenced  and   drowned  in 

tears. 

In  a  world  of  madness — a  world  of  lies, 
Where  we  follow  a  mirage  of  Paradise. 

Time  — who  robs  us  of  everything  sweet, 
While  cowards  and  slaves  we  cringe  at  his 

feet, 

She  has  defied  him,  and  fled   from    his   care, 
And  I  would  follow,  but  do  not  dare. 

I  knew  her  better  than  all  beside, 
And  1  know  the  reason  that  she  has  died, 
Whatever  is  said,  or  however  it  seems, 
I  know  she  would  not  out-live  her  dreams. 

Fearless  she  passed,  beyond  the  reach, 
Of  all  heart-hunger,  and  passioned  speech, 
Life  was  a  burden  she  could  not  bear, 
So  she  lies  in  a  shroud  of  her  golden  hair. 


(12) 


"-* 


f 


/ 


C*< u-X_A-^ 


•7; 


Death  of  President  Sarfield 
n  monody 


Read  by  tfte  Hutbor  at  tbe  memorial  Services  at  Ukiab, 
California,   Ittenflay,  September  26,  i$$i 

OLL  all  the  bells!  a  great   soul's   passed 

away 
From  clouds  and  shadows   to  the  per- 

fecl:  day; 

The  wasted  garment  that  is  left  behind 
Must  be  to  ashes  and  to  dust  consigned. 
The  tears  of  suffering  death  has  wiped  away, 
But  who  shall  dry  the  eyes  of  those  who  stay — 
The  aged  mother  and  the  faithful  wife? 
The  children  wailing  for  that  ended  life? 
The  nation  calling  for  the  leader  slain, 
Who  long  weeks   languished   on   his  bed  of 

pain? 

Toll  all  the  bells,  beat  low  the  muffled  drum; 
In  long  procession  mourning  millions  come 
To  honor  him  who,  in  a  land  of  laws, 
By  lav/less  hand  has  died,  without  a  cause. 
Beside  the  ocean,  that,  with  measured   surge, 
Chanted  his  first  and  grandest  funeral  dirge — 
Sublimest  minstrel  at  the  feet  of  God; 
It  still  sang  on,  while  fell  the  mystic  rod 
And  moaned  a  requiem  for  the   parting   soul 
Soaring  beyond  this  little  world's  control. 
No  human  voice  may  sing  of  him  so  well, 
Nor  all  the  grandeur  of  his  hi^lory  tell; 
But  to  his  memory,  out  of  many  lands, 
Will  struggling  genius  lift  aspiring  hands. 
To  him   who   fortune's  darkest  frowns   with 
stood 
And  kept  his  every  aim  still  great  and  good  — 

(13) 


Who  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill  of  fame, 
With  life  unblemished  and  unsullied  name. 
A  grand  rebuke  to  every  weaker  heart 
That  tempted,  turneth  from  the  better  part; 
Reproaching  those  who,  like  the  one  of  old, 
Their  birthright  for  a  "mess  of  pottage*'  sold. 
His  mind,  untrammeled,  was  as  broad  as  earth; 
His  heart  was  centered  at  his  family  hearth — 
He  made  his  home  a  type  of  all  things  seem 
Of  which  the  honest  Christian  soul  can  dream, 
Fit  emblem  of  that  home  in  fairer  lands 
Where  mansions  wait,   not  built  by   human 
hands. 

The  annals  of  the  past  one  truth  repeat, 

Of  those  whose  lives  with    greatness    were 

replete — 

This  fact  more  eloquent  than  all  beside, 
What'er  their  history,  they  all  have  died. 
Sceptre  or  crown,  the  pride  of  place  or  power 
To  frail  mortality  loaned  but  for  an  hour, 
When  death  had  pointed  to  the  solemn   bier, 
They  learned  the  mockery  of  all  things  here. 
Sowing  that  others  might  the  harvest  reap, 
Along  the  wayside  they  have  gone  to  sleep — 
Tired  of  the  treasures  that  the  years  may  rust, 
Tired  of  the  things  that  are  but  sordid  dust, 
Tired  of  the  gold  that  thieves  break  through 

and  steal, 

Tired  of  the  wrongs  successive  years  reveal  — 
The  graves  of  such,  like  landmarks,  strew  the 

sod, 
Pointing  submission  to  the  will  of  God. 

But  though  the  souls  of  men  like  him    we 
mourn, 

(14) 


On  waves  of   mystery  are   beyond  us  borne, 
A  grateful  world  their  names  perpetuate, 
And  well  may  strive  their  deeds  to  emulate. 
For  though  they  drift  beyond  the  tides  of  pain 
We  feel  indeed  they  have  not  lived  in  vain. 
A  proud  inheritance  has  this  one  left 
To  all  his  loved  ones,  and  the  land  bereft, 
His  pure  example  may  the  world  defy, 
His  glorious  principles  can  never  die; 
Nor  that  so  blessed  and  so  heaven-sent, 
On  which  its  authors  based  our  government, 
Where  earnest  manhood  by  its  simple  worth, 
Depends  not  on  the  accident  of  birth — 
By  honest  labor  without  gold  to  buy, 
May  earn  and  reach  its   stations  proud  and 

high. 

Oh!  let  the  flags  droop  low — toll  all  the  bells; 
We  lay  him  down  amid  our  last  farewells, 
Under  the  earth,  with  loving  tributes  dressed, 
Do  v/e  resign  him  to  his  lasting  rest; 
And  to  Columbia,  still  safe  and  free, 
We  trust  the  honor  of  his  memory; 
As  turns  his  sacred  clay  to  kindred  sod, 
His  martyred  spirit  finds  repose  with  God. 


(15) 


empty  Rooms 

UR  best  beloved  have  journej'ed  on, 
Through  winter's  snow,  and   sum 
mer  blooms, 
And  left  us  only  empty  rooms. 

Familiar  nooks,  and  silent  stairs, 

With  memories  like  faint  perfumes, 
Are  haunted  yet;  in  empty  rooms. 

A  pillow  where  some  head  has  lain, 

In  recent  hours  of  evening's  gloom, 

Lies  dented  by  the  dear  impress,  within  the 
room. 

A  book  once  held  in  fragile  hands, 

Has  fallen  at  the  touch  of  doom, 
Prone,  in  the  silent,  empty  room. 

A  dainty  gown  across  the  couch. 

A  graceful  outline  still  assumes, 
But  empty — as  the  empty  rooms. 

Time,  cruel  and  relentless  steals, 

Remorselessly  life's  dearest  boons, 
And  leaves  us  only  empty  rooms 


In  Breams 


LEAN  my  head  upon  your  breast — 
The  passion  and  the  pain  are  o'er. 

Within  your  arms  at  last  I  rest, 

Regretting  nothing  gone  before. 


I  am  at  peace  with  life,  it  seems, 
You  love  me — but  alas!  in  dreams. 

(16) 


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Autograph  Letter  from  Joaquin  Miller. 


Co  tftc  University  of  California 

OST  mecca  of  my  youth, 

Between    thy    shrine    and    my    sad 

heart, 

1  he  years  with  pallid  faces  stand 
And  hold  us  far  apart. 

I  reached  aspiring  hands 

Hung'ring  toward  thy  "mount  of  light;" 
God  filled  them,  measuring  not  my  plans — 

He  doeth  all  things  right. 

His  tasks  appointed  well, 

To  idle  heart-break  not  allied, 

Gave  nature  as  my  "Alma  Mater" 
And  duty  for  my  guide. 

But  echoes  of  thy  fame 

Waft  by  on  wings  of  memory, 
And  day  by  day  my  constant  thoughts 

Like  prilgrims  go  to  thee. 

Co  3oaqum  Iflilkr 

PON  The  Heights  he  sings  today - 
i   The  first  light  of  a  dawn  which  brings 
The  morning  of  Eternity, 
Has  turned  his  golden  locks  to  gray. 
As  noontides  glow,  and  evenings  pale, 
He  dreams;  and  watches  while  he  sings, 
The  ships  white  sail;  the  gull's  white  wings. 
He  strikes  his  hand  across  the  strings — 
The  song  of  birds,  the  sound  of  rills 
Wakes  from  his  lyre,  and  sweetly  thrills 
Each  listening  heart  with  Strange  desire, 
To  turn  from  sordid  things  away, 
Where  far  from  traffic,  toil  and  strife, 
He  dares  to  live  a  poet's  life. 

(17) 


One  Easter  Day 

NE  Easter  Day  my  sweetheart  took  my 

hand 
And  led  me  back  to  youth's  bewitching 

land; 

He  said:  "Forget  the  sorrows  you  have  known, 
Forget  that  grief  has  left  you  sad  and  lone; 
Turn  from  the  shadows  of  the  silent  tomb, 
Come  back  with  me,  among  the  flowers  that 

bloom, 

Hope's  star  has  risen — let  your  heart  respond 
To  every  impulse  that  is  pure  and  fond; 
Be  glad  that  midway  on  lifes's  journey  met, 
My  love  can  make  you  all  your  cares  forget, 
This  Easier  Day." 

I  turned  and  looked  into  his  eyes  of  blue, 
I  saw  a  soul  so  steadfast  and  so  true, 
A  nature  loving,  and  so  sweet  and  rare, 
That  none  with  him  in  this  world    can    com 
pare; 

I  learned  that  I  may  all  my  woes  forget 
That  life  for  me,  indeed,  holds  gladness  yet. 
Sweetheart — sweetheart!        Then     keep    my 

heart  and  hand, 
I  walk  with  you  through  time's  most    wond'- 

rous  land, 
The  sunshine  of  your  smile  makes  glad  my 

heart, 

The  storms  are  over,  and  all  fears  depart, 
Dear   eyes — sweet     lips — come     close,     and 

closer  yet, 
All  else  forgotton — yes,  I  do  forget 

This  Easter  Day. 


(18) 


Tn  October 


WALK  with  bland  October— 
The  forest  she  attires, 

With  golden  leaf,  and  scarlet  leaf, 
And  russets  she  admires. 

Far  down  the  dusky  canyon, 

Where  all  should  be  so  sere, 
I  catch  the  gleam  of  forest  fires — 

The  incense  of  the  year, 
Burning  before  the  altar, 

Where  stands  the  chaliced  wine 
Of  all  the  days — the  perfect  days, 

Of  your  dear  life — and  mine. 

I  walk  with  bland  October — 

The  forest  she  adorns, 
With  a  thousand  shades  of  evening, 

And  the  light  of  golden  morns, 
The  quail  calls  from  the  thicket, 

And  the  wild  canaries  sing, 
Their  plaintive  song — the  dearest   song, 

The  song  of  vanished  spring. 
The  year  is  almost  gone,  dear  heart, 

But  I  bless  these  later  days 
While  I  walk  with  bland  October, 

Through  all  her  wondrous  ways. 


(19) 


Jit  the  Threshold  or  3unc 

N  a  riot  of  fragrance  and  blossoms, 
At  the  wonderful   threshold   of  June, 
I  am  here;  with  the  blooms  all  about  me, 
And  the  wind,  just  a  wave  of  perfume. 

A  robin  calls,  down  in  the  hollow, 
Where  the  shade  is  so  grateful  and  deep, 
And  the  swale  grass   bends  over   the  water, 
That  seems,  in  the  silence,  asleep. 

Far  up  in  a  stately  madrone, 

Where  branch  and  bough,  summerlong  swings, 

So  glad,  with  exultant  existence, 

By  its  nest,  an  oriole  sings. 

The  bee  hovers  over  the  mallow, 

And  hums  as  he  gathers  his  tithe 

In  the  heart  of  the  flowers,   sure  of  treasure, 

That  he  garners  away  in  his  hive. 

The  things  that  fail  not  are  around  me, 
The  long  years  have  brought  them   no  loss, 
And  the  days,  like  a  chain  linked  between  us, 
Time  and  distance,  is  reaching  across. 

And  1  count  them,  to  measure  their  fullness, 
With  sudden  tears  dimming  my  sight; 
For  they  bring  me  to  these,  that  are  empty, 
In  spite  of  things  fragrant  and  bright. 

And  the  song  of  the  bird  is  a  burden, 
And  the  flowers  sweet  with  perfume  and  dew, 
Break  my  heart,  with  their  sense  of  perfection, 
Because  I  want  you — only  you. 

All  else  seems  to  have  its  fulfillment, 
And  to  be  but  to  bless  and  adorn, 
But  without  you,  the  world  is  a  desert, 
And  my  life,  incomplete  and  forlorn. 

(20) 


f.        ,  s?/ 


memorial  Poem  Upon  the  Death  of  General 

U.  S.  Grant 

Fcad  by  the  Jfutbor  at  the  Services  at  Ukiab,  mendocino  County, 
California,  JJugust  $,  iws 


HO  has  not  stood  within  the    chilling 

gloom, 
Where  some  bright    pathway  ended  at 

the  tomb, 

And  from  its  portal  could  no  longer  trace 
A  future-blank,  for  want  of  one  loved  face? 
Then  dazed  and  broken,  blindly  faltering  back, 
Resumed  the  round  of  life's  repellent  track? 
What  family  circle  has  not  broken  been 
By  this  decree,  provoked  by  man's  firs!  sin? 
This  awful  mystery;  whose  fingers  cold 
Can  touch  impartially  the  young  or  old, 
Point  out  the  fairesl:  for  the  fatal  dart, 
And  still  the  beating  of  the  noblest  heart. 
No  pride  of  station  and  no  boast  of  power 
Prolongs  a  life  for  even  one  short  hour. 
The  cottager,  or  claimant  of  a  throne, 
On  God's  great  mercy  both  depend  alone; 
No  other  power,  at  last,  endures  to  save. 
And  all  distinctions  level  in  the  grave. 
Toil's  implement —the  monarch's  royal  crown, 
At  that  dark  threshold  are  alike  laid  down. 
We  come  as  beggars  from  the  Master's  hand, 
And  at  life's  close,   we  still     as    suppliant's 

stand — 

Oh !  may  His  mercy,  like  a  mantle  fall 
At  that  dread  hour,  in  charity,  on  all. 
What,  though  our  burdens    be    of  pain    and 

care, 
So  great  they  seem,  more  than  the  heart  can 

bear; 

(21) 


Be  patient  still,  we  all  will  lay  them  soon 
Down  by  the  portals  of  the  quiet  tomb; 
And  in  the  silence  of  that  awful  shade, 
How  many  a  fault  to  nothingness  will  fade. 
The  hoarded  treasures  of  the  countless  years 
Have  been  resigned  before  that  shrine  of  tears. 
For  there,  each  heart  has  said  a  last  "good-by," 
And  broken  there  is  every  earthly  tie — 
And  when  we  hold  the  wreaths  that  triumph 

gave, 
We  all  turn  back  to  lay  them  on  some  grave. 

What  meed  of  praise — what  tribute  shall    we 

pay 

To  him  the  nation  meets  to  mourn  today? 
Who  danger's  gauntlet  oft  in  safety  ran; 
Who  lived  a  hero,  but  to  die  a  man. 
He  was  but  human — but  his  faults  were  few; 
His  life  was  honest,  and  his  purpose  true. 
Blame  not  that  noble  one,  that  fortune  led 
His  feet  where  war  had    made   the  pathway 

red  — 

His  country  called;  he  did  her   grief  assuage, 
And  saved  America  her  heritage. 
Where  wrong  has  been,  alone,  God   knoweth 

best, 

And  there  alone  His  punishment  will  rest. 
But  no  just  thought  confuses  now  with  him 
That  awful  scourging  of  a  people's  sin. 
Over  his  coffin  sorrowing  today, 
Bow'd  are  the  vet'rans  of  the  blue  and  gray, 
Over  his  grave,  unworthy  strife  will  cease, 
And  North  and  South  clasp  hands  in    lasting 

peace. 
The  flag,  whose  honor  he    has    saved,  hangs 

low; 
And  all  the  land  is  draped  in  signs    of    woe; 

(22) 


And  many  a  cheek  with  honest  tsars   is  v/et, 

Now,  that  at  last  his  star  of  life  is  set. 

But  though  the  flowers  we  bring   be    doomed 

to  fade, 
And  loving  hands  that  weave  them    shall    be 

laid 

I  o  moulder  back  into  the  common  clay, 
Forgotten — like  the  tributes  of  this  day — 
He  leaves  one  thing,  that  will  not  be  forgot, 
To  live  immortal  in  the  people's  thought. 
When  liberty,  enlightening  the  world, 
All    false  usurpers    from    their   thrones     has 

hurled; 

When  creeds  no  more  perplex  fanatic  fools, 
Who  live  by  rote,  and  worship  God  by  rules; 
When  parties  die  —  and  prejudice  is  dead — 
And  igorance,  and  in  their  narrow  stead, 
A  people  live,  by  truth  and  reason  led — 
A  Christian  people  o'er  the  whole  earth  spread, 
Then  will  the  greatness  of  this  man  be  known; 
Though  back  to  dust  the  monumental   stone 
Has  crumbled,  his  memory  will  shine 
Throughout  the  ages  of  all  coming  time. 
So  fear  not  now,  within  the  Nation's  sight, 
This  glorious  epitaph  of  him  to  write: 

He  leaves,  emblazoned  on  the  scroll  of  fame, 
The  matchless  splendor  of  a  deathless  name. 


(23) 


my  Sbrinc 

ROSE,  and  the  red  wine  there  beside 
And  the  waxen  taper  burning  slow, 
With  the  olden  flame  of  long  ago, 
Before  the  Face  of  the  Crucified. 

The  fume  of  incense  within  the  room, 
An  echo  of  music  pulsing  through, 
While  thronging  memories  of  you, 
People  the  purple  twilight's  gloom. 

Why  bend  the  knee?     When  here  apart, 
The  soul  is  bowed;  and  bending  low, 
Over  the  dreams  of  long  ago, 
Broods  a  broken  and  contrite  heart. 

Here  in  the  waxen  taper's  shine, 

I  guard  my  shrine  through  the  waning  years, 

Where  the  offerings  are  silent  tears — 

The  Face,  and  the  rose  and  the  chaliced  wine. 

"IWy  Eifels  Devoted  to  memories  of  Son" 

SAILED  beneath  a  burning  sun, 
By  coral  reefs  and  isles  of  balm, 
Where  orange  groves  and  silvery  palm 
By  faint  spice  winds  were  gently  fanned, 
Until  I  readied  a  tropic  land. 
And  with  three  thousand  miles  between 
The  shores,  whereon  two  oceans  fret, 
I  bravely  said,  "I  will  forget," 
And  there  beneath  the  Southern  Cross 
I  crept  out  in  the  breathless  night; 
My  heart  was  breaking,  and  the  3lars 
Shone  dimly  on  my  fevered  sight — 
Ah!  vain  is  change  of  time  or  place; 
In  heaven  itself  I  see — thy  face! 

(24) 


Co  my  Children 

FLOWERS!  that  on  the  stream  of  life, 

So  recklessly  I  cast; 

To  drift  upon  the  tide  of  time, 

Beneath  skies  overcast. 
Helpless  I  stand  upon  the  shore, 
The  current  will  not  stay, 
Beyond  my  reach — beyond  my  sight, 
I  watch  you  drift  away. 
The  arms  that  held  you  once,  with  joy, 
Are  empty  now,  and  all 
The  treasures  that  the  years  have  left, 
Are  touched  by  rust  and  gall, 
The  yew  tree  stands  where  roses  bloomed, 
In  ways  we  journeyed  through, 
I  drank  your  laughter  then,  like  wine — 
Your  tears  are  myrrh  and  rue. 
Your  tiny  bodies  were  so  dear, 
Held  close  against  my  heart, 
But  time  has  racked  them  with  it's  pain, 
And  we  are  far  apart, 
It  seemed  the  sunshine  on  your  hair, 
Could  never  fade  away — 
The  cruel  years  have  dimmed  the  light, 
And  touched  the  curls  with  gray. 
Your  little  hands  so  soft  and  sweet, 
Touched  all  the  chords  of  life, 
Till  wakened  was  the  wondrous  song, 
That  silenced  every  strife, 
But  now  those  hands  are  worn  by  toil, 
Along  life's  busy  ways  — 
I  cannot  kiss  the  hurts  away, 
As  in  those  happier  days. 
But  at  your  feet,  in  thought,  I  kneel, 
In  silent,  abject  woe — 

(25) 


The  deepest  sorrow  life  can  give, 
And  only  mothers  know — 
Remembering  that  because  of  me, 
You  suffer — and  you  live, 
O'er  time  and  space  that  separate, 
I  ask  you  to  forgive. 

Cbe  Eyre  of  Sreece 


airmen  lifter  a  Uisit  to  tbe  6reek  Pavilion  at  tbe 
Panama-Pacific  exposition 


WENT  to  Greece  and  saw  its  broken 
shrines, 

Where  all  its  splendor  lies  prone  in  the 

dust, 

Mute  witness  to  the  wrongs  of  other  years, 
In  cruel  tracery  of  blood  and  tears, 
Recorded  by  the  hands  of  Greed  and  Lust. 
And  every  broken  image  seemed  to  bleed, 
From  wounds  that  reach  into  the  heart  of  things, 
Where  ages  have  not  cured, 
Pain  and  silence  long  endured, 
Where  lies  the  Lyre   of  Greece  with  broken 

strings. 

For  in  this  Classic  Clime,  the  lovliest  and  best, 
Were  broken  on  the  wheel  of  baser  things, 
At  deep  and  tragic  cost, 
Its  Sapphic  Verse  was  lost, 
Where  lies  the  Lyre  of   Greece  with  broken 

strings. 

But  may  the  dream  of  one*  who  loved  her  well, 
And  died;  where  even  desolation  sings — 
Inspire  the  hands  that  build, 
The  fanes  restored — and  filled, 
With    the  music    from  that  Lyre  of  broken 

strings. 

*    Byron 

(26) 


Good  Triday 

HIS  day  the  Savior  died  —  suffered  the 

Crucified, 

Yet  could  His  failing  eyes  see  the  re- 
pentant's  tear, 

Saying:     "In    Paradise    thou    shalt   with    Me 

appear." 
"Father,  forgive!"     He  prayed;    such    blessed 

words  He  said; 
"They  know  not  what  they  do."     This  in  the 

face  of  death, 
This  for  His  enemies,  asked  with   His   latest 

breath. 
Yet  do  His  children  now,  turn  from  His  face 

and  bow, 
Not  to  this  lowly  one;  down  to  strange  gods 

beside, 
And  in  their  lust  and  pride,  still  is  He  cruci 

fied. 

How  long  will  they  profane    His    pure    and 

sacred  name? 

Placing  His  holy  sign,  His  emblems  so  divine, 
In  midst  of    mockery,    on    each    unhallowed 

shrine? 

"I  thirst  !"  —  to  each  poor  heart,  struck  by  some 

poisoned  dart, 
Treading  the  narrow  way  —  ready  to  faint  and 

fall, 
To  the  parched  lips  that  cry,  earth  gives  her 

bitter  gall. 
Oh,  let  us  kneel  today;  kneel  in  the  dust  and 


Close  to  His  bleeding  feet;  seeking  our  soul  s 
relief 

(27) 


In  deep    repentant  grief — e'en  like  the  dying 
thief: 

Jesus,  the  "Prince  of  Peace ,"  ivhen  shall  the 
striving  cease? 

Dark  roll  the  waves  of  death;  can  we  the  cur 
rent  stem? 

Seeing  at  last  Thy  face — touching  Thy  gar 
ment's  hem? 

Forgive  each  idle    word,  Thy  outraged  ears 
have  heard, 

Each  sinful  act  forgive;  into  Thy  hands  re 
ceive 

At  death  our  sorrowing  souls,  that  they  may 
live. 

This  day  the  Savior  died — suffered  the  Cruci 
fied; 

Yet  He,  the  suppliant,  heard,  and    He  could 
pitying  see; 

Saying:     "In  Paradise,   today,    thou    shalt  be 
with  Me." 

fllosie 


WATCH  a  schooner  steam  out  to   the 
west — 

Far  out,  to  the  sunset  lands 

But  you  are  away,  and  my  heart's  unrest, 
Shadows  the  sea  and  sands. 
The  golden  glory  fades  from  the  sky, 
And  the  waves  are  a  sullen  gray, 
And  I  miss  you  so,  and  the  future  gives, 
No  pledge  of  a  brighter  day. 
I  love  the  changing,  yet  steadfast  sea, 
Soundless,  or  tossed  to  foam, 
In  moods  so  like  the  faithful  heart, 
That,  for  your  sake,  is  alone. 

(28) 


"fllterwards" 

PALE,    sweet     face!       Believe    me — I 

know — I  understand — 
Even  though  ocean-parted,  and    parted 

by  the  land, 
Longing  and  broken-hearted  for  touch  of  lip 
or  hand. 

O,  voice!  to  me  the  sweetest  that  I  have  ever 
heard 

And  dearer  than  the  music  of  wind  or  sing 
ing  bird, 

You  need  not  break  the  silence,  e'en  by  a 
written  word. 

You  have  blest  me,  and  forever,  by  look  and 

touch  and  tone, 
And  time  can  rob  me  never,    nor   make   you 

less  my  own, 
Although  without  your  presence,  I  am  bereft — 

alone. 

I  trust  you;  ocean-parted,  and  parted  by  the 
land, 

Wild  for  the  old  caresses,  of  cheek,  or  lip,  or 
hand  — 

I  love  you — O,  I  love  you !  I  know  and  under 
stand. 


(29) 


m  Oe  giiff 

ETWEEN  the  sand  dunes  and  the  sea, 
Clasped  in  his  arms  my  love  kissed  me, 
Back  of  us  far  the  city  lay, 
Before  us  dashed  the  salt  sea  spray. 

Dim  was  the  moon  with  the  trailing  mist, 
Creeping  inland  silver-kissed, 
What  did  the  wild  night  mean  for  me, 
Between  the  sand  dunes  and  the  sea! 

Only  this — my  love,  my  own — 
Sad  and  deep  as  the  ocean's  tone, 
Dashed  like  the  wraves  in  the  breaker's  strife 
Tossed  and  wasted,  and  worn  my  life. 

At  the  base  of  a  cliff  as  merciless, 
As  this  one  touched  by  the  foam's  caress, 
Where  waves  of  feeling  on  life's  long  strand, 
Have  died  unheeded,  on  barren  sand. 

Blame  me  not,  that  I  drifted  back, 
Forgetting  all  that  my  life  must  lack, 
A  brief  sweet  while,  on  the  tide  of  time, 
Touching,  and  blending  your  life    and    mine. 

Heart  of  my  heart — I  love  you  so, 
How  shall  I  tell  you?  How  can  you  know? 
All  that  evening  has  meant  to  me, 
Between  the  sand  dunes  and  the  sea. 

SurirnierfancS 

SEE  the  fields  of  Summerland, 
Flower-spangled  through    the    fragrant 

green, 

1  long  to  reach  the  fair  expanse, 
But  something  lies  between — 
Between  my  heart  and  Summerland, 
Lost  youth,  and  all  my  dreams  of  truth, 

(30) 


Between  my  heart  and  Summerland. 

I  see  the  fields  of  Summerland, 

I  hear  the  lark's  clear  song  of  love, 

Where  on  the  waves  of  perfume  comes, 

The  soft  call  of  the  dove  — 

But  something  lies  between, 

A  grief  untold,  the  grave's  dark  mould, 

Between  my  heart  and  Summerland. 

I  see  the  fields  of  Summerland, 

And  you  are  there— O,  you  are  there, 

Of  all  so  beautiful,  the  best; 

You  beckon,  but  I  do  not  dare, 

To  cross  the  things  that  lie  between, 

A  cruel  fate,  has  closed  the  gate 

Between  my  heart  and  Summerland. 

esiene 


WONDERFUL    soul    and    a   heart    of 

flame, 

Dwelt  for  a  time  in  an  earthly  frame; 
I  saw  the  soul  in  the  shining  eyes, 
And  knew  that  it  longed  for  Paradise. 

Graceful  and  slender  beyond  compare 
Was  the  winsome  garment  it  used    to   wear; 
Too  frail  for  the  conflict  of  worldy  strife, 
And  the  barren  years  of  our  common  life. 

For  the  problem  of  living  is  tangled  yet, 
The  pathways  hedged,  and   the  haunts  beset, 
By  cruel  things,  that  when  defied, 
Swell  the  ranks  of  the  crucified. 

So  the  wonderful  soul  with  consuming  pain 
Rent  the  garment  and  heart  of  flame, 
But  somewhere  in  Heaven  I  know  is  seen, 
The  spirit  that  here  was  called  Eilene. 

(31) 


J\  Ectter 

WAY  from  you,  dear-heart,  I  do  not  live, 
Time    only  drags  upon     a    broken 

wing, 

The  dove  that  cleft,  so  soon,  my  cloud 
ed  sky, 
Brings  back  to  me,  no  peaceful  offering. 

Along  the  way,   the  lark  sang    through    the 

morn, 
And  grape,  and  wild  rose  blooms  were 

sweet  with  dew, 

Of  all  the  world,  I  seemed  the  most  forlorn, 
Because  I  wanted  you— just  only  you. 

I  am  as  tired  tonight,  as  any  child, 

And  long  to  nestle  near  a  faithful  heart, 

Within  the  clasp  of  arms  that  evermore, 

Henceforth,   should    hold  me   from  the 
world  apart. 

There  is  no  peace,  in  life,  for  me  again, 

A  restless  round  must  fill  declining  days, 

Because  you  loved  me,  and  I  loved  you  so, 

While  time,  relentless,  brought  the  part 
ing  ways. 

Away  from  you,  dearheart,  I  do  not  live, 

Though  all  the  world  is  radiant  with  the 

spring, 

The  dove  that  cleft,  for  aye,  my  troubled  sky 
Left   but  the  phantom  of  her  peaceful 
wing. 


(32) 


flntc  mortem 


HEN  this  strange  garment  that  my  soul 

has  worn 
Has  burned  away  beneath  the  fitful 

flashes, 
Of  that  wild  fever  that  no  cure  has  known, 

Until  the  heart  consumes  to  coldest  ashes, 
"Life's  fitful  fever,"  burning  with  such  loss 
Of  thought  and  feeling— earth's  diviner 

treasure, 
So  many  precious  things  among  the  dross, 

Their  value  would    a    life-time    take    to 

measure. 
When  "dust  to  dust"  a  strange   voice    softly 

says, 

And  sadly  drop  the  valley  clods  above  me, 
While  telling  o'er  the  events  of  my  days, 

Amid  the  tears  of  those  who  think  they 

love  me; 
If  they  could  know  the  seeming  endless  pain, 

That  I  had  passed  beyond — and  died, 
They  would  not,  surely,  wish  me  back  again, 
Where  all  that's  Christ-like  still  is  cruci 
fied. 

That  priceless  debt  the  world  cannot  repay — 
A  child's  lost  faith  in  all  its  vain    assur 
ance, 

The  hope  that  turns  toward  a  brighter  day, 
Through  months   of   toil,    and  patience, 
and  endurance, 

This  is   the  sum,   too  oft,  through  changing 

years, 
Of  sacrifice  no  words  may  fitly  tell; 

And  so,  despite  the  most  regretful  tears, 
We  sleep,  "after  life's  fitful  fever,"  well. 

(33) 


I  have  so  suffered — thus  a  glad  relief 

Seems    possible;    and    now,    as    time    is 

fleeting, 
I  look  where  Death  stands,   just  beyond  my 

grief, 
And  know  that  there  no  pulse  of  pain  is 

beating; 

Where  sin,  ingratitude,  and  pride  and  lust, 
That  have  so  marred  the  frail  thing  I  am 

wearing, 
Lying  beside  that  poor  handful  of  dust, 

Are  left  at  last,  while  I  go  on  uncaring. 


Death  of  President 


"Tt  T$  6od'$  Ulav" 


HE  roll  of  drums,  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
The  frailty  of  life  sublimely  tells 
How  vain — how    transient     and     how 

brief  is  power; 
It  all  is  vanquished  in  death's  solemn  hour. 
"I  cannot  let  him  go."     Love,  shrinking  cried; 
"God's  will,  not  ours  be  done,"  he   said,   and 

died. 

O,  brave,  true  heart!  Such  faith  can  time  defy, 
All  else  may  change,  but  truth  can  never  die. 

Wise  is  that  Providence  he  trusted  in, 
Wiser  and  mightier  than  wrong  and  sin. 
Living,  the  country  that  he  served,    he    blest; 
Dying,  he  left  it,  as  his  last  bequest, 
The  proud  example  of  man's  noblest  aim, 
A  Christian  patriot  in  life  and  name. 

(34) 


Surrender 


NE  who  had  fled  along  the  way  of  life, 
Holding  the  blossoms  of  a  radiant  youth, 
Lost  one  by  one,  the  flowers  of  hope 

and  truth, 

Reaching  at  last  the  borders  of  despair. 

Deep  in  her  heart  a  single  crimson  rose, 

Hidden  and  cherished  through  the  lengthen 
ing  days, 

Still  had  she  kept;  through  all  earth's  devious 
'ways, 

Fragrant — dew-pearled,  and  still  divinely  fair. 

Some  of  its  red  was  folded  in  her  lips, 
Some  of  its  dew  was  mingled  with  her  tears, 
And   all  its  perfume   lingered    through     the 

years, 
In  the  bright  meshes  of  her  shining  hair. 

Until  rose-fragrant  was  her  daily  life, 
Filled  with  all  things,  that  love,  and  even  death 
Make  so  immortal;  and  like  the  rose's  breath, 
She  was  herself,  still  sweet  beyond  compare. 

And  to  a  land  of  silence  and  of  dreams, 
She  went  forth,  finding  one  she  longed  to  find, 
Tender  and  true,  and  best  of  all  his  kind, 
And  her  last  treasure  laid  within  his  hands. 

"Crushed  it  may  be,  and  even  cast  aside, 

In  life's  turmoil,  for  merciless  the  noon, 

Of  work  and  strife,   but    'neath    this    magic 

moon, 

I  yield  the  talisman  of  love  and  life." 
"Fear  not,"  he  said,  "though  long  we've  slray- 

ed  apart, 

No  knight  of  old  more  leal  than  I  shall  be, 
This  priceless  favor  that  you  bring  to  me, 
Crushed  it  shall  be;  but  crushed  against  my 

heart." 

(35) 


BOVE  the  sounds  of  strife  and  care 

Confused  and  jangled  everywhere, 

I  hear  in  tenderest  refrain 

The  promise  that  you'd  come  again, 
The  soft  winds  blow  across  the  world, 
And  sails  are  filled,  and  sails  are  furled; 
A  thousand  suns  arise  and  set, 
Meanwhile — in  May — I'm  waiting  yet. 


(36) 


Queen  Uictoria  from  a  Olostiaii's  Standpoint 

Given  by  the  flutbor  at  tbe  memorial  Services  field  by  the 
Residents  of  Oroviile,  Butte  County,  California,  Tefcruary  2, 

TN  contemplating  the  life  and  character  of 
Qiieen  Victoria  from  a  woman's  standpoint 
we  are  not  so  much  impressed  by  the  grandeur  of 
her  career  as  a  sovereign  and  her  reign  as  the  rul 
er  of  a  great  nation— equal  at  all  times  to  every 
diplomatic  and  executive  emergency — as  we  are 
by  the  tender  graces  of  her  exalted  womanhood 
and  the  example  of  her  brilliant  mission  as  queenly 
wife  and  mother;  and  the  ideal  and  harmonious 
blending  by  her  of  public  and  private  duties,  that 
the  world  has  deemed  impossible,  because  less  no 
ble  and  more  coldly  ambitious  women  have  made 
them  seem  antagonistic,  when  they  were  called  to 
places  of  great  power.  As  queen,  wife  and  moth 
er,  she  has  lived  a  blameless  life.  With  cool  head 
and  warm  heart,  she  was  equal  to  all  the  occasions 
of  human  existence.  A  womanly  woman,  she  fol 
lowed  the  dictates  of  her  better  impulse,  and 
sought  early  the  protection  and  counsel  of  a  good 
and  manly  man,  her  equal  intellectually,  morally 
and  spiritually,  and  to  his  companionship  she 
owed  much  of  the  perfection  of  her  nature  and 
character. 

CJShe  realized,  as  all  wise,  good  women  realize  that 
there  is  no  higher  destiny  for  any  woman  than  to 
be  queen  of  the  heart  and  home,  and  mother  of  the 
children  of  the  man  she  respects  and  loves,  and 
who  loves  her  in  truth  and  honor.  The  highest 
compliment  that  life  afforded  her  was  that  she 
was  universally  beloved  by  women,  being  too  no 
ble  for  their  envy,  and  sweet  and  simple  enough 
for  their  emulation. 
SJThe  splendor  of  her  royal  crown  was  dim  to 

(37) 


her  beside  the  halo  of  the  little  golden  heads  that 
nestled  on  her  breast;  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd 
less  precious  than  her  husband's  adoring  praise. 
€JBy  her  life  and  character,  royal  womanhood 
has  been  so  exalted,  that  all  coming  queens  for 
very  shame  will  not  dare  to  fall  below  the  stand 
ard  she  has  set.  And  so  the  whole  wide  world 
is  better  that  she  has  lived.  To  time's  oblivion, 
her  memory  will  not  pass.  That  heart  which  held 
her  own  so  dear,  beat  warm  for  all  humanity,  with 
a  broad  sympathy  greater  than  all  pride  of  place 
or  power — greater  than  even  genius — and  because 
of  suffering  and  war  it  has  broken,  and  is  sudden 
ly  silent,  in  the  tomb  to  which  we  tenderly  and 
tearfully  consign  her. 


Oey,  Coo,  flrc  But 

J\  monotone 


BEYOND  even  the  control  of,  "Our  Father 
who  art  in  Heaven/9  are  those  who  break, 
by  selfish  uses  of  stolen  knowledge,  the  harmony 
of  wisdom  that  should  have  been  attained.  At 
war  with  God  and  man,  they  cannot  say:  "Hal 
lowed  be  Thy  name. "  The  conflict  between  the 
human  and  the  divine,  goes  on,  and  will,  until 
the  whole  world  learns  to  pray:  "^hy  kingdom 
come,  Thy  will  he  done,  on  earth  as  it  is  in  Heaven. " 
fJWe  know  the  world  is  round,  and  turning 
on  to  time's  relentless  ending.  Above  us  space, 
and  stars —and  far  below  illimitable  space,  and 
other  stars.  An  instant's  loosening  of  the  mighty 
hand — the  thought  and  power  that  holds  us  in  our 
course  —  call  it  attraction  if  you  please — and  falling 

(38) 


worlds  would  crash  through  endless  space,  in 
chaos  indescribable. 

SJThe  most  intelligent  believe  that  all  things 
tangible  must  pass  away,  and  only  the  intangible 
endure.  And  yet  we  strive  for  the  fleeting  power 
that  comes  with  material  possessions,  and  pile  up 
treasures  for  the  moth  and  rust,  where  thieves 
break  through  and  steal. 

Sjjlf  perfect  faith  and  trust  were  ours,  we 
would  seek  first  His  kingdom  asking  only:  "Give 
us  this  day  our  daily  bread, "  and  the  rest  would 
follow,  and  be  given  us.  We  need,  indeed,  to 
cry:  "and  forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  We  forgive  them 
u)ho  trespass  against  us.  "  "And  lead  us  not  into  tempt 
ation/'  for  day  by  day,  upon  this  changing,  dying 
world,  the  sweat  of  toil,  the  tears  of  agony,  the 
blood  of  breaking  hearts,  falls  upon  the  gold  that 
ruthless  men  accumulate,  and  history  repeats 
again,  and  yet  again,  the  stoiy  of  man's  inhuman 
ity  to  man. 

€jjA.nd  yet  all  are  but  human.  Upon  the 
brow  that  wears  an  earthly  crown,  will  gather 
soon,  the  dews  of  death.  The  proud  heart  beat 
ing  strong  with  pride  and  ambition  must  fail 
some  day,  and  faint  into  silence.  The  pitiful  de 
pendence  of  the  dying,  and  the  humiliation  of 
dissolution  awaits  us  all,  and  after  the  inequalities 
of  life,  the  level  of  the  grave.  And  oh,  the  loss — 
the  awful  loss,  of  those  who  never  waken  here,  but 
only  in  eternity. 

CjLet  us  remember  then,  with  what  pitying 
tenderness  we  can,  those  blind  to  truth,  and  that 
the  selfish,  and  the  cruel,  and  the  wicked,  are  also 
human,  and  pray  God  to  keep  us  all  nor  to  for 
get,  "hut  deliver  us  from  evil.  Amen!" 


(39) 


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